


Let Me Rest

by cosimosis (Cosimosis)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: He really just needs to sleep for like a week, M/M, Mild Injuries, Tired Geralt, Unbeta'd, We Die Like Men, hell I need to sleep for like a week too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosimosis/pseuds/cosimosis
Summary: Geralt just needs a break. And the safest place is at the Rosemary and Thyme.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 490





	1. Chapter 1

_Just a little further. Novigrad is just over the hill._

An ache had set itself deep into Geralts body. At this point, he was unsure if it was the compounded injuries, and blood toxicity from a bad hunt, or if it was due to no adequate sleep or food for more than usual, or both. Right now, as he urged Roach slowly along, he figured it was both.

The moon was high by the time he made it to the gates of Novigrad, barely seen through the clouds that had gathered and soon began pouring rain. Geralt watched as the guards stared after him. Of course, a mutant was still frowned upon. But, at least he had two friends in the city, two friends that ran a tavern, that he hoped had some warm food and a warm bed for him. Roach nickered softly.

“Easy girl, almost there. I’d bet anything that our bard will treat you like a thoroughbred once we’re there.”

Novigrad was quieter at night, at least where there weren’t brothels. The less noise the better, in Geralts opinion. He knew he’d be getting an earful anyways, as he saw lights down Glory Lane. The warm lights of the Rosemary and Thyme beckoned as he ambled down the street. A stablehand, who was no more older than his teens, across from the tavern woke up as the witcher approached. The kid stretched from his place beneath the overhang.

“Late night, in’t it?” the stablehand said, as Geralt lowered himself from atop Roach. _Hmm, the spots in my vision probably aren’t good_ he thought, as black spots started prickling at the edge of his view. 

“Here, for your trouble. Should you have any questions, direct them to Jaskier, the owner of the tavern,” Geralt told him, handing the teen a couple crowns. The teen grinned,

“She’ll get the finest oats I have, and the best blanket.”

Geralt nodded in approval, as he rubbed at his eyes for a moment, trying to clear the black spots. At least Roach would be well taken care of til morning. The short walk to the tavern felt like a mile. His sodden armor dripped as he made his way up the steps; fighting a shiver as he did.

“Fuck,” he whispered. There were few sounds within the tavern, so, it must have been later than he imagined. He hesitated for a moment, and listened. _Oh thank all the gods, Zoltan’s awake_. The dwarf could be heard muttering about something to do with ales and meads. With a faint smile, Geralt pushed the door open. But, as exhaustion set in, he only managed to lean against the door frame in time, as black spots started dancing at the edge of his vision again.

“Oi who –! Geralt! You daft bastard!” Zoltan cried, dropping the tankard he had been cleaning and practically running over to his friend.

“Nice to see you again, Zoltan.”

Zoltan did a quick once over of the witcher and hummed. “You’ve been through the wringer ‘aven’t you. C’mon then,” the dwarf said, motioning for Geralt to follow.

Geralt willed his legs to comply, but only so far as to get to the nearest table.

“Shit,” Zoltan swore. “Let me get Jaskier. The lad’s upstairs.”

Geralt merely nodded and closed his tired eyes. He listened as the dwarf went up the two flights stairs, and down the hall. The first door was Jaskiers. There was a not-so-hushed...request that the bard wake up, followed by a worried laugh. Footsteps were quick coming down the hall and down the stairs. Geralt opened his eyes again to see the cornflower blue eyes of his bard, waiting.

“Chose a fine time to show up,” Jaskier told him. “Here I am, in need of my own beauty sleep, and in comes this gruffy, soaked to the bone, Witcher. Whatever am I suppose to do?”

Geralt managed a smirk. He did enjoy this game they played. “Offer me a place to stay, and I’ll repay you for all your troubles.”

Jaskier gently placed a hand on Geralts cheek, thumb idly brushing over a healing cut; the surrounding skin was bruised green. The witchers veins, which were a more of a pale grey than blue, were still visible. _He almost overdosed,_ _didn’t he_ Jaskier thought. “Can you eat first?”

“Foglet decoction and Black Blood needs to fully clear before food.”

“Alright. Zoltan could you –?”

“Aye, ‘get my room ready, an’ get a bath going’ I know. Damn lovebirds,” Zoltan said, wandering upstairs. The bard began to unclasp the buckles and belts of Geralt’s worn armor, taking care to place the silver and steel swords safely within the witcher’s reach. Jaskier looked at the new claw marks around Geralt’s throat, opposite of the scar from the Striga.

“What was it this time?”

“Ghouls and Rotfiends, most recently.”

Jaskier stripped Geralt of his torn and soaked through undershirt. The injuries beneath the shirt were at least healing well this time. Maybe they wouldn’t scar. But he was dismayed to find that his ribs were more easily seen; a witcher’s metabolism ran faster than a normal humans. A few days without food, and they would begin starving.

“How many days without food or sleep?”

Geralt hummed, “I think it’s been ten days without _good_ sleep? Four days without adequate food.”

Jaskier removed Geralt’s boots, and noted the slightly swollen foot; the bard knew what broken toes looked like.

“How well can you walk?”

“Made it all the way here, didn’t I? I can walk fine.”

“Good. A warm bath first, then, you’re going to sleep until supper. I don’t need you blood-poisoned in the middle of my tavern in the middle of the day. C’mon, I want to get back to sleep before dawn.” Jaskier wrapped his hands around Geralt’s arm and gave it a small tug in a wordless indication that the witcher should get up and follow him.

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled, fighting his own tired body to stand up. The black spots that danced at the edge of his vision returned as he stood. Hastily, he reached to grab the edge of the table, and closed his eyes. Suddenly a warmth was at his side, and a hand snaked up around his shoulders.

“My poor White Wolf, the Path has been particularly hard on you this time. Keep your eyes closed, if it’s easier. I’ve got you.”

Geralt quietly hummed in agreement. His sense of smell alone could guide him to the lightly perfumed soaps Jaskier preferred, which were in easy access to his personal, magical tub (a gift from Triss.) But, it was a comfort to have the bard steer him gently towards the stairs and tell him when another step waited for him.

“Zoltan, I don’t think we’ll be needing much more, but–” Jaskier started, as the two entered the bard’s room.

"My swords," Geralt said, opening his eyes for a moment in quick worry. Zoltan and Jaskier exchanged a look. Of course the witcher would still be worried in the safest place he knew. The dwarf nodded, 

“I'll grab 'em, and get yer armor off the floor. I'll leave the swords just inside the doorway. If ye lads need anything else after, give a holl’r, otherwise I'm off to bed,” the dwarf replied, idly waving at them as he walked away.

“I truly do owe the two of you,” Geralt said, after having his pants removed and being allowed to sink into pleasantly warm water.

“You owe us nothing, Geralt. Witchers have it hard enough as it is, fighting all the monsters normal men would die to,” Jaskier told him, as the former dragged a soft cloth over the witchers body, scraping away the dried blood and, presumably, monster guts, that the rain couldn’t wash away.

“Normal men live happier lives.”

“But a witcher puts all other men to shame. Tip your head back, let me get your hair clean.”

Geralt did as he was told and tiled his head back. In the years they had know each other, the Witcher and the Bard had seen _everything_ the other had to offer. Geralt strangely felt no shame in letting Jaskier willingly tend to his needs.

“A witcher doesn’t usually get such niceties,” the white wolf muttered. Jaskier smiled softly as he worked through the knots in the silver hair with his fingers. He paused, and pressed a light kiss to Geralt’s brow.

“This one does. I’m afraid I haven’t anything that fits you for nightshirts, but I’ve some trousers that should work. I can get your things to the laundress at dawn. For now, well...”

“Just having a real bed to sleep in is far more than I usually get, lack of a nightshirt doesn’t bother me.”

“Good. Now, stand up, lets get you dried off before you get all prune-y”

With a disheartened sigh, Geralt complied. The bath _was_ warm. Maybe he could convince Jaskier to let him borrow it again. After drying off and putting on a pair of soft trousers, Geralt very happily laid down on Jaskier’s bed, on a mattress of mixed wool and feathers. Quickly he felt his consciousness drifting towards sleep. He mumbled out,

“C’m’ere”

“I thought that you might like –” Jaskier began to explain. He had figured the witcher would sprawl out on his bed and revel in solitude and quiet.

“No. Come here,” Geralt said again, hand reaching out to the space next to him, clearly indicating where the bard should be. Jaskier paused for a moment. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t shared a bed before, but Geralt was picky, emotionally or otherwise, in the best of times, and to openly tell the bard to stay with him gave Jaskier a moniker of hope.

“Geralt, are you alright?”

“I’m tired. Come here.”

“Well...alright, only if you’re sure.”

“Mhmm.”

Jaskier eased himself into his bed, only to be very quickly drawn in by the witcher, and practically pinned against him. The bard turned slightly, so he could see Geralt’s face. The quip he had ready died on his tongue as he saw the faint smile and the tension ease from the white wolf. Jaskier’s own lips quirked up,

“Good night, Geralt.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier have a little talk after the former wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I read all y'alls comments; and here's my thank you to all of you, who have commented and left such lovely notes! It's short and I'm sorry, but I like to think it's wicked sweet still because these boys are wicked sweet, and I feel like they'd just have a nice little conversation.

Jaskier was right about one thing, he did in fact sleep until supper. Geralt cracked one eye open, only to see that the sun was setting, and to finally realize that the space next to him was cold. At some point, the bard had slipped away from the bed. _And I didn’t notice?_ Geralt thought. Tentatively, he sat up, trying to put into place what had happened last night. To fall into a truly deep sleep was rare for any witcher, as their senses were too sharp and even the smallest of mice skittering three meters away could wake them.

But here, at the Rosemary and Thyme, Geralt _slept_ , and by his estimates, he slept for more than twelve hours.

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed in surprise as he stretched, his shoulders and neck popping multiple times.

“That certainly doesn’t sound great.”

Geralt looked over at the door to see Jaskier leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. The witcher raised an eyebrow. The bard smiled as he crossed the room and took the empty spot that he had previously occupied,

“I was just coming to see if you were awake and ready for some food. Looks like the toxins have finally cleared, I can’t see your veins anymore. Horrid things, those potions of yours.”

“Would you rather I not give myself every advantage possible?” Geralt replied.

“No. But, it’s,” Jaskier paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. The sharp eyes of a witcher were well versed in watching facial expressions; while they might not be the best at feeling emotions, they certainly knew how to read them. _He’s not normally this anxious about speaking_ Geralt thought before the bard continued, “well, I just don’t like seeing you half dead in my tavern.”

For one that was so eloquent with words, Jaskier could not have been more blunt. In all his time with the White Wolf, it was when he showed up in the dead of night was when he was most afraid. He’d seen Geralt wounded and ill from his potions before. But, to see Geralt _tired_ scared him. A tired witcher would lead to a dead witcher.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s low grumble pulled the bard from his thoughts. “If you...if your tavern were not here, I’d be dead on the Path somewhere.”

 _If yo_ _u_. The witcher wasn’t as good at ‘not-having-emotions’ as he always proclaimed, Jaskier figured. Bards were very well in tune to inflection in a voice. _He’d meant to say just ‘if you’ before he caught himself_. The bard tentatively placed his hand over Geralt’s, mildly noting the new scars and callouses,

“At least I have one saving grace then. Other than being your pillow for half-a-night,” he gently teased. The quick, amused ‘hmm’ and slight smile he got from the witcher surely was going to be put into a song later.

As was the light kiss Geralt placed on his cheek.

“You never change, bard,” the silver-haired man whispered.

“Neither do you, witcher.”


End file.
